


Heart of a Dragon

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And much ado about them, Dragons, Giants, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: Everyone says there's a dragon pestering Crestwood. Funny, though, that the Crestwood villagers themselves seem to know nothing about it. Funnier still that some Vint appears to have moved in the area at around the same time as the rumoured dragon. Coincidence? Bull thinks not.Or, Bull goes looking for a dragon and instead finds Dorian.





	Heart of a Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> First, a great big thanks to [Dyamirity](http://chickenwithatophat.tumblr.com/) and [Shae](http://shae-c-art.tumblr.com/) for creating the beautiful artwork for this story! It was a delight to colaborate with you.
> 
> I would never have got through this without the music of Two Steps From Hell and Dragon Age: Origins. Also Adrian, if you're reading this, know that your support was invaluable.

 

 

 

I

 

 

Bull had taken his Chargers to Crestwood, because he'd heard in neighbouring villages that a dragon had settled in the area and was terrorizing it all around. Funnily enough, the Crestwood villagers themselves appeared to feel a lot less terrorised than the Chargers had been led to believe elsewhere.

“A dragon?” the Crestwood mayor said and scratched his stubble, when Bull went to him to offer his services. “I've never seen one. To be honest, I'm inclined to believe the village drunks invented it for everyone's amusement.”

“Off with you,” said one woman, when Bull went to ask some regular villagers about it. She adjusted her grip on the little toddler in her arms, while obviously struggling with the covered basked in her other hand. Bull felt a little bad for detaining her, but she had refused his offer for help and now looked more than a little vexed with him. “I've seen your ilk here before. You parade around and yodel about your glory as professional dragonslayers with nothing to back your stories, then bring us some wyvern heart and think we can't tell the difference, and demand our coin for the _service_ you did to us. Off with you, I said!”

To be fair, Bull hadn't once claimed to be a dragonslayer; the Chargers were professionals, sure, but they did all kind of mercenary work, and if they favoured jobs with something big to fight, it was only their preference, not a definition. Well, Bull's preference, mostly, but it didn't mean the Chargers wouldn't plough a field if there was good money in it.

“I've seen the dragon,” said an elderly woman whose name was Mirren. Bull knew this, because she had told him it multiple times while struggling with the cork of her waterskin. The stench that spread from it once she succeeded probably beat even maraas-lok. “I've seen it fly for the hills, one night. Saw it when I returned from the tavern. East it went.” She took a swing from her waterskin. “Old Mirren knows.”

“Chief,” said Krem, when Bull reunited with his guys at the tavern. “No one here has seen the dragon. The last person who claims to have seen it was drunk. People here don't even believe in the dragon. There _is_ no dragon.”

“Can't be sure of that,” Bull argued and waved for the serving boy. “Some folk in other villages have seen it in Crestwood's vicinity. We'd better make sure it's not lurking somewhere in the hills. Dragons do that, lie dormant all quiet and nice, until one day they go on a fiery rampage. Could do Crestwood a lot of harm.”

Stitches, who had been more or less following the conversation with an unimpressed look, said, “You just want to fight the dragon.” It sounded like an accusation.

“Hey, one doesn't have to rule out the other. We get a dragon fight, the villagers get safety. Win-win.”

“Except if it kills us, supposing it exists,” grumbled Krem, whom Bull knew for a fact to hate dragon fights. The guy had a lot to learn about the best things in life, still. “'Sides, we don't even have any clues. The only thing the drunks agreed on is that the dragon was first sighted some five months ago and that it lives in the hills – which is a guess _at best_.” An unhelpful one, too, Bull admitted that much; Crestwood was practically surrounded by hills.

“There's also a Vint,” Stitches told them matter-of-factly, “who also arrived some five months ago and lives in the hills. But he's been sighted by everyone, not only by the drunks.”

“A Vint?” No one had mentioned a Vint to Bull.

“He's apparently a mage and lives alone in an old tower as far as anyone can tell. Comes here every other week for supplies. Harmless so far, no abducted children or cattle.” Stitches saw Bull's look and shrugged. “I spoke with the merchant. She's well-informed.”

“Right,” Bull said. “A Vint. And a dragon. _Not_ a coincidence.”

“If he's a mage, maybe he's messing with the villagers, created an illusion of a dragon?” Krem suggested, sounding hopeful.

“Or maybe he knows something,” Bull answered and grinned, satisfied. It was something to start with, at least.

Krem saw his face and shook his head, defeated. “We haven’t even been hired to look for the dragon.”

“We will be, once we find proof that it exists,” Bull reassured him.

So the next morning he set for the hills – alone, something that Krem had been against at first. He had relented, when Bull had promised to go just for the Vint and maybe to keep an eye out (singular, Bull had made sure to emphasise to Krem's despair) for any signs of big, winged reptiles. Plus, everyone agreed that the Vint might consider them a threat if they all barged into his tower, and the area needed scouting, anyway; the Chargers would make a round in the area in two teams while Bull was away. He would handle the Vint by himself.

Stitches had said that the Vint lived in the hills, and Janna, the well-informed merchant, had pointed to him the general direction. Neither had mentioned that 'in the hills' actually meant 'three-hour-walk from Crestwood across some hills, through a forest, and then some more hills'. Stitches had also said that the Vint lived in a tower, and when Bull finally found it, he saw that it was both an over- and an understatement. Understatement, because it wasn't just a tower, it was more like a small keep – and overstatement, because it was mostly in ruins.

He walked around the tower once. There were two entrances, one to the actual tower and one to where the living quarters probably used to be. Only neither entrance had an actual door, and when Bull took a peek into the keep part of the building, he found it to be empty, save for some dusty rugs and a few broken pieces of furniture. The base floor of the tower was in similar state, but there was a round staircase going up. Bull followed it.

The stairs were mostly stable, with only a few loose or crumbling stones. There was moss growing in the corners and between the stones. Didn't much look like a place where an old Tevinter mage might choose to live, but then again, hermits tended to be eccentric.

The stairs ended in a wooden door that was almost entirely (poorly) repaired with fresher planks. It didn't give in when Bull tried to pull it, so he shrugged and knocked on it with his fist.

Nothing happened, for a log enough while that Bull almost started to doubt the existence of both the Vint _and_ the dragon. He knocked again, harder.

The door opened.

 _Well shit,_ thought Bull, _at least the Vint is real._

Real all right, but not what Bull had been expecting. Usually, when people mentioned a hermit, they had in mind a grumpy old man like the one the Chargers had encountered in Brecilian forest once – a lot of beard, even more wrinkles, and patched-up robes. Not a young, smooth-skinned, _hot_ guy with styled moustache and fancy leathers. Shit, he even smelt good. _Real_ good, though Bull couldn't pinpoint of what exactly the perfume or soap or whatever it was on the Vint reminded him.

The part with 'grumpy' seemed about right though, because the Vint eyed Bull with open suspicion and said, “There's no need to try bringing my door down, I will have you know. I rather prefer it intact, if it's all the same to you.”

Bull hadn't knocked _that_ hard. “Sorry,” he said, and wondered if the little black spot under the Vint's right eye was an artfully placed beauty mark or a lucky mole. He extended his hand. “The Iron Bull. Leader of the merc band called Bull's Chargers.”

“Lovely,” the Vint responded in a tone that indicated anything but, and took Bull's hand after a brief moment of hesitation. He drew his hand back after one quick, firm shake, and it didn't escape Bull's notice how the Vint's eyes flickered to his horns before settling on his face again, carefully avoiding the eye-patch. Bull grinned a little. So the big qunari made him nervous, huh? Good to know.

When he refused to say anything, the Vint continued with obvious reluctance, “May I help you with something?”

Bull said, “Yeah, actually.” And then, because he'd grow a second pair of horns before the Vint asked him, added, “Mind if I come in?”

By the look of it, the Vint minded, but silently stepped aside anyway to let Bull in.

The room was round, pretty spacey, and much cosier than Bull had expected after seeing the crumbling exterior and abandoned lower hall. There was a big hearth with a roaring fire on one wall, even though the sun was high and the day was warm. On the wall beside the hearth hung some pots and a pan, and on the other side stood a barrel with water. In front of the hearth was a heap of rugs, pillows, and blankets, clearly put there intentionally; it looked soft and comfy, almost like a nest. There was also a bookshelf on the opposite wall, and beside it a big chest with a heavy lock. On the wall above the chest hung a faded tapestry, picturing a market of some unnamed town, and there was also a doorway leading to another room. There was no door on the hinges, only a rug serving as a curtain to separate the two spaces. More out of habit than anything else, Bull's eye lingered on the gap between cloth and stone, if he could see a little of what was behind. He couldn't; the space behind the curtain was too dark.

“Do sit down,” the Vint said behind him and gestured at a sturdy, expertly carved table in the middle of the room – a little needlessly, because the chair by the table was the only seat in the entire room, the nest by the fire excluded. Either the Vint didn't have many guests, or he entertained them elsewhere.

The implication of _that_ mental image was best left ignored for the moment.

Bull sat, pushing some papers aside to make room for his elbow. Now that he looked, he realised that the table – no, every horizontal surface was covered with books and parchments and scattered notes. The bookshelf was full, so there were a few dangerously leaning piles on the floor beside it, and the table surface wasn't even visible due to scrolls and sheets of paper and parchment and ink pots and pens occupying it.

The Vint followed him to the table and began fussing with the papers, collecting them into a neat pile. “Well – Iron Bull, was it? – what can I do for you?” He almost knocked over a cup half hidden beneath the papers. He picked it up and frowned at it, then resumed his polite look and asked Bull, “Tea?”

He did sound undeniably polite, in the same flat manner people used when they didn’t particularly care to be. For which Bull couldn't blame him; he had, admittedly, shown up kinda unannounced.

“No thanks,” he replied, taking an interested look at the notes on the table. “You have a name, other than 'the Vint in Tower?'”

“Dorian,” the Vint said curtly and snatched the papers from under Bull's nose before he could try to decipher the drawn diagrams and scribbles in Tevene. Not that he understood much Tevene, beyond the common curses and one tongue twister, but he'd caught a word here, a rune there during his years with Krem.

He had also learnt that Vints never came with just 'Dorian' or 'Krem'.

“No family name?”

“Tevinter family names hardly matter this far south,” Dorian uttered crisply, which, while maybe true to some extent, was also total bullshit; the way Dorian spoke and carried himself pretty much screamed for a Family Name, with capitals and all. Bull would bet his horns and the remaining eye that Dorian came from a noble house, and Bull had never met a Vint to whom the family name didn't matter – even Krem carried his like a badge. Briefly he wondered if he should press a little, see if there was anything worth digging into, there.

But Bull didn't operate under the Qun any longer, and the urge to dig out little bits of information was mostly a force of habit these days. Besides, he had come for particular sort of information only, not to be an asshole to a guy in his own home. So he casually leant his arm on the vacated space on the table and straightened his legs. “Fair enough.”

Dorian, who had by then gathered most of the scattered notes into his arms, looked around for a surface to place them on and hummed absently. “Quite. Now, if there was something you needed..?”

Bull watched him come to the realisation that the table really was the only surface with any little space left, and couldn't help being a little endeared by the vexed purse of Dorian's lips as he resigned and dropped the notes back on the table. Arms empty, he folded them over his chest and turned his full attention to Bull, pale grey eyes expectant.

“Yeah,” Bull answered, forcing himself to focus. “Right. As I said, I run a merc band. Ever heard of Bull's Chargers?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Well, we travel around, do jobs for people, get paid, that sort of thing.”

“Herding the cattle, helping with harvest, you mean?” Dorian asked, and, for the first time, his frown eased and the corners of his lips lifted with mild amusement. “I'm afraid I have no field to plough, if that's what you're angling for.”

That spark of humour looked good on him. Bull grinned, and swallowed his initial response about potential ploughing. “Nah. Not our kind of work.” Most of the time, anyway. “Giant-bating, dragon-slaying, that's more our thing.”

Maybe that meant something funny in Tevene, because Dorian burst out laughing. Eyes closed, head thrown back – for a short moment only, but an abrupt contrast to what he'd shown to Bull so far. Nice, too, the way his neck stretched and eyes flashed with mirth when he opened them to look back at Bull. Just like that, the suspicion was gone. Why? Had Dorian expected different kind of mercenaries, or other trouble to his doorstep?

“Let me take a guess,” Dorian said, smiling. His tone had changed a little, too. “You are here to kill the infamous dragon and present its heart to the villagers in Crestwood.”

“Nice guess. Yeah, pretty much. You've heard of it, I gather.”

“Very little. I'm afraid you must be disappointed. The dragon of Crestwood is more a myth than anything else.”

“Not so sure about that. Lots of people have seen it, from the neighbouring villages too.”

“Yes, every drunkard in the area, I should think,” Dorian snorted with a roll of his eyes. He pulled a wooden crate from under the table, filled with scrolls too, and carefully sat on its edge. “It appears some villager or other invented a story about a dragon, and others joined it. Fancy that, having a resident dragon in your village! Something to impress people from other towns at common fairs. I'm not surprised, mind you – there's little else to brag about in this dreary, rustic place.”

“Quite a few words,” noted Bull, “to convince me that the dragon's fiction.”

“Iron Bull,” said Dorian, assuming a tone that Bull associated with tamassrans speaking to headstrong kids, “trust me when I say that you are not the first adventurer to appear on my doorstep to inquire about the dragon. I doubt you will be the last, either, but I suppose one must cling to hope.”

Adventurers? The Chargers were _professionals._ “Not fond of visitors, are you?”

“Not when they keep pestering me about the same drunkard's tale, no.”

“There a lot of them here, then?”

“Who, drunkards, or would-be dragonslayers?” Dorian quirked a smile. “There have been many enough adventurous if regrettably misguided souls to count with all your ten fingers in these past few months. Well -” He seemed to note the two stumps on Bull's hand, resting on the table. “A few more, perhaps.”

Bull thought of the woman in Crestwood, accusing him of being a fraud. “Hm. That so.”

“Indeed,” said Dorian with a particular sort of finality, standing up; _That's all I can give, sorry._ An obvious end to the conversation and a polite but clear hint for Bull to take his leave.

Glancing at Dorian, Bull's eye landed on one of the books on the table. It was thick, cover made of dark leather on which the book's name was painted: _Discovering Dragon's Blood: Potions, Tinctures, and Spicy Sauce_ _s_.

“You know what,” said Bull, leaning back on his chair and giving Dorian a wide smile, “Think I'll take that tea after all.”

Dorian gaped at him, like not believing Bull's audacity to violate the unwritten rules of hospitality, and then his brow twitched in a would-be frown when he saw Bull's shit-eating grin and realised that he had crossed the line on purpose. “As you wish,” he said, considerably less benevolently now, if not exactly in an unfriendly way. He went to the hearth and filled the smallest pot with water.

“So, Dorian,” Bull said, conversationally.

“Yes, Iron Bull?”

“Hey, just Bull is good. Anyway, what are you doing out here? Why live in an abandoned ruin half a day's walk from town -” His eye swept around the room again. “- alone?”

“Charming as the area is, people still have some barbaric superstitions about Tevinter,” Dorian said. “That aside, I need peace and quiet for my research.”

Bull hadn't noticed any particular animosity towards the Vint in tower among the villagers. Shit, they weren't even bothered about a _dragon_. “What are you researching?”

“If you must know, an exceedingly rare magical phenomenon dating to Ancient Tevinter, which, I'm sure, will do little to entertain you.”

“And you had to drag half a library from Tevinter to the outskirts of Crestwood to do that?”

Dorian looked at him over his shoulder, the wary squint back. Damn. “What is this, if I may ask? An interrogation? With all these questions one might assume you've been hired to dispose of me instead of the dragon.”

“Hey, no sense in asking questions if I planned to do that.” Bull offered him a friendly smile. “Just asking.”

“Well, I'll have you know that nothing I do here harms anyone, I don't practise blood magic, and I've no inclinations to sacrifice people or summon demons. You may pass that on, if anyone in the village so happens to _just ask_ , too.”

“People assume you do that?”

“As I said, Southerners often entertain themselves with frankly ridiculous but no less regrettable superstitions, be it a _Vint_ or a dragon.”

“Not sure if isolating yourself like this helps.”

Dorian looked at him crisply. “While I appreciate your advice, _Bull_ , it is hardly your concern. The townspeople and I have an arrangement of mutual cordiality. I stay out of their business, they stay out of mine, and merchants accept my coin as well as anyone's.”

Bull was pretty sure that wasn't how cordiality was defined, but hey, not his business. His business was solely the dragon, which, at the moment, did look pretty grim for him. Well, good for the villagers maybe, but come on, dragon fights were too scarce to be missed like this. Like someone had asked him if he wanted those delicious chilli nuts and then said there weren't any.

Dorian returned to fussing with the tea, and Bull took the opportunity to peek at the stack of papers on the table. The notes were all written in Tevene, and only the book about dragon's blood was in Trade. He picked it up, glancing at the author's name – Ferdinand Pentaghast, never heard of him – and opened it from one of the first pages.

 _Collecting_ _dragon's blood_ _is extremely difficult, even for the most accomplished dragon hunter._ _First, one must locate the increasingly rare creatures. Second, one must bleed it. However, I believe that at the moment of death, the blood loses something special—a certain fiery essence, perhaps. Of course, bleeding a live_ _dragon_ _is quite tricky. Dragon's blood has wide variety of uses, both magical and culinary. It's an important component of rune-crafting and those like my great-grandfather enjoy a sprinkling of the powdered stuff to their food at the dinner table._

 _Drunkard's tales, my ass,_ thought Bull, closed the book, and let it fall open at a random page. The pages split near the end of the book, to reveal a chapter title _Potions: Alternative Experiments for Rare Illnesses._ This was evidently the most read part of the tome, and the margins were filled with tiny scribble in Tevene.

“Hmm,” said Bull to himself, and quietly put the book back where he had taken it. It was no use to try peeking at the notes in Tevene, so Bull took another look around the room, in case he'd spot anything of interest. His gaze stopped on the doorway to the adjacent room. He pointed at it. “What's there?”

Dorian paused fishing tea leaves from two cups to look where Bull was pointing. He rolled his eyes when he saw, and turned back to the tea. “You should visit tea parties in Tevinter, the high society would absolutely love you,” Bull heard him mutter. Then, louder, directed to Bull, “My bedroom, if the floor plan fascinates you so.” He left the hearth with a cup in each hand and arched a brow at Bull. “Shall I draw you a map? Offer a tour, like an obliging host?”

Bull, whose life philosophy was to grab the chance when he saw it, made a show of dragging his gaze from Dorian's toe to his head, and leered. “In your bedroom? _Yeah._ ”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Dorian swore at him, and what was that, his dark skin reddening a little? Aww, the Vint was _blushing_. “That’s not what I meant, you horrendous oaf.”

Bull grinned. Dorian's wariness was gone again, leaving space for exasperation that felt much more genuine. Win. “Hey, worth a try. I mean, if you offered, I'd absolutely go for it.”

“You are a horror,” Dorian declared, but when he lowered one of the cups on the table in front of Bull he definitely let his eyes linger on his shoulders.

“Thanks.” Bull took the tea, casually flexing his pecs as he did, but Dorian had already withdrawn and gone around the table. “Anyway, you've got a nice place here, considering you live in a ruin.”

“It has rather grown on me,” Dorian said non-committally, settling on his crate again like it was a cushioned throne.

“How long have you lived here?”

Dorian's eyes sharpened at the question, and Bull held up his palms. “Just asking, I swear. Making conversation. Isn't that what they do in high society tea parties?”

Dorian's expression relaxed. “They _would_ love you,” he said and allowed a smile. “Well, in polite conversation a question demands an answer. I took residence in this tower roughly five months ago. You, on the other hand, seem quite a well-travelled man. Where do you plan to venture next? I mean, as I understand it, mercenaries go where there's well-paying work, and since our dragon isn't real..?”

 _Real smooth_ , Bull thought, not without amusement, as Dorian left the inquiry hanging and took a casual sip of his tea. He might have been fun to observe at those high society tea parties he had mentioned, himself.

“Nah,” he said. “Going to stick around for a bit. There's always an angry wyvern or two around to deal with, if nothing else. Or a mining cave overrun by giant spiders, or menacing bandits. And hey, who knows, maybe the dragon shows up after all.” He winked.

Dorian frowned a little. “Is there something in your eye?”

“No. Just a nugget of dust.”

Bull was just shitting, but Dorian, for some reason, looked a little embarrassed. “Ah. Apologies. I don't really notice the dust that much, and with no need to upkeep appearances for tenacious relatives...”

A hermit altus getting self-conscious about cleaning? That was just plain cute. He'd have to tell Krem.

Dorian bristled. “Stop laughing.”

“I'm not laughing.”

Dorian fixed him with a very unimpressed glare.

“Okay, I'm laughing a little bit,” Bull admitted and schooled his expression.

“I notice you have finished your tea,” Dorian said pointedly, and, considering that he was right, Bull decided to take the hint this time and go, before Dorian would resort to magic in order to kick him out.

At the door Bull stopped and turned to Dorian. “So, as we'll stick around for a bit with my guys, maybe we'll see you in the village some time.”

“Unlikely. Goodbye.”

Bull grinned. “Or maybe I'll come for another visit.”

Dorian pulled the door closed with as much slam as the thing could handle without breaking, which, admittedly, wasn’t very much. Points for the effort, though.

“Thanks for the tea,” Bull said to the door, and left.

 

 

 

II

 

 

By the time Bull returned to Crestwood, the Chargers' tents had already been erected on the outskirts of the village.

“No signs of the dragon,” Krem said, when Bull finally joined the Chargers’ table at the tavern. “If it even exists, which I doubt, it makes far longer trips than the area we covered.”

“Yeah?” Bull sat down on the bench beside Krem. “I found the Vint. He’s hiding something.”

“Big surprise,” snorted Skinner, who was sitting on Bull’s other side and picking bones from her trout with a knife. “They’re always fishy.”

“I’m not,” Krem protested.

“You’re a runaway and a deserter,” Skinner said.

Hard to argue against that, so Krem went to buy another ale. When he returned, he had one for Bull, too. “They’ll get you food in a moment,” he told him.

“Thanks, Krem.”

Krem waved a dismissive hand at him. “So, the plan? Since there’s no dragon -”

“There is a dragon.”

A meaningful silence took over the table.

“Right,” Krem said. “So, the plan?”

Bull’s plate arrived, brought by the same freckled kitchen boy as the day before. Bull took a mouthful of hot fish, to steal some time for making the decision. He swallowed, washed the food down with ale, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The plan,” he said, “is this. We stick around for a bit, see if we find any trace of the dragon. Pack enough supplies for a few days, scout a bit further. The dragon’s been seen from other villages in the neighbourhood, so it’s got to be here.” Unless it truly was a drunk invention, like Dorian had insisted, but Bull didn’t believe that.

Speaking of. “Don’t know. The Vint’s suspicious too. Real eager to see us gone, apparently neck-deep in some research.” He shrugged at the look Stitches gave him. “Wonder what has to be researched so far from the village.”

“What did he say about the dragon?”

“That there's no dragon. Which is bullshit. He knows something about the dragon. He's got a book about dragon blood.”

“Maybe he's hiding the dragon,” Dalish offered, stealing a slice of fried carrot from Rocky's plate.

“Maybe he wants the dragon for himself,” Rocky said, not noticing a thing.

“Hmm,” said Bull.

They packed up their camp on the following morning, bought enough supplies for three days, and hit the road. If the dragon had been seen from the neighbouring towns, it must travel west, so west they went.

They ventured pretty far, but found no signs of the dragon – no telling trails in terrain, no droppings, no charred bones. Still, their trip wasn't fruitless, because they came upon a little village they hadn't visited before, and the village Eldest told them that a dragon had been sighted in Crestwood's direction once or twice. She had even glimpsed it herself, and no more than a fortnight earlier. Granted, she told them, the dragon appeared to always stir in the last dark hours of the night, and she couldn't be sure whether or not her poor sight was deceiving her.

She also hired them to clear out a wolf pack gone berserk, which detained the Chargers in the village for two extra days, longer than Bull had planned. Also, they got paid in rice. Huge-ass _sacks_ of rice.

“Next time,” grumbled Bull, when they finally headed back for Crestwood, “we first take the payment and _then_ do the job.”

Krem refrained from a smart comment, but only because he was too busy cackling like a little shit.

The Chargers had been away a week when they returned to Crestwood, and apparently no one had expected to see them there again.

“You're back,” marked Janna the merchant, when Bull went with Krem and Stitches to try to sell the rice to her. She eyed the sacks with a mixture of reluctance and suspicion. “Hello Stitches.”

“Yeah,” Bull answered, while Krem let her see inside the sacks to confirm the quality of the rice. Stitches pointedly ignored the look he sent him, so Bull focused on the merchant instead. “Went to see if we'd have any luck with finding the dragon.”

“I see. Mirren says she saw the dragon last night,” Janna said. “One gold for a sack. I'll buy three.”

“What?”

“Three sacks, one gold each.”

“No, the- the dragon?”

“It made an appearance,” Janna repeated patiently. “Or so Mirren says. Do we have a deal?”

Mirren was the one whose word maybe wasn’t unconditionally reliable. Still, Bull shot a smug smile to Krem. Krem scowled at him in response.

“Ser,” Stitches said.

Janna cleared her throat, and Bull got a grip of himself. “Right, yeah. Wait. One gold? That's robbery. Did you see the sacks? You'll feed half of Crestwood with one.”

She shrugged. “You can try selling them to Donny if the price doesn’t suit you,” she said.

Donny was the other one of the two merchants in town, and specialized in everything from trinkets to lousy swords, excluding only food.

“We'll take it,” Bull said. “Seven golds for five sacks.”

“Three golds,” Janna corrected him placidly. “For three sacks.”

“Fucking village merchants,” Bull grumbled, very quietly, as he and Stitches carried the sacks into the merchant’s hut.

“She’s good, you have to give her that,” Stitches said, looking smug.

When they were finished, Janna handed to Krem the coins. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, when they turned to leave. “The Vint in tower came to make business while you were away. Asked about you. I told him you had left the area.” She shrugged, as if to say she had done her part; _do with it what you will_.

“Thanks,” Bull said and grabbed the remaining two rice sacks.

“So. What are we gonna do?” Krem asked.

Bull gave it a thought, and remembered a dish he had tasted once in Nevarra. “Rice pudding.” He considered the weight of the sacks. “Lots of it.”

“Sure,” said Krem with a shrug. “But I was talking about the Vint.”

“Oh. Guess I'll pay him a visit.”

“Teach him to make rice pudding too,” Stitches muttered from under his sack of rice.

Bull left for Dorian's tower early in the following morning, when the sun was yet just below the horizon; the walk would take some time, and Bull would like to investigate a little in the area around the tower. He had left Krem with the instructions for the Chargers again; Dorian hadn’t been sold on travellers the first time Bull had been around, and he doubted that had changed in the past week.

He was maybe halfway to the tower when he heard a funny sound, a bit like the tent flap tugging in strong wind, but louder. A _lot_ louder, and approaching fast.

Bull looked up.

It was the dragon. It was the dragon gliding across the sky, far above, its bronzed scales catching the rays of the rising sun as huge wings pushed it on as effortlessly as any little bird Bull had ever seen. It didn’t look as big as some high dragons Bull had fought, but even from afar it was clearly of respectable size on any scale. It looked majestic. It looked every bit a god that old qunari legends hinted for dragons to have been, and Bull was watching it and it was fucking _glorious_.

“Shit,” he rasped out and followed the dragon’s flight, rooted to the ground until it disappeared behind the trees and hills.

Behind the trees and hills where Dorian's tower stood.

“Shit,” he cursed again, this time with more vehemence, and picked up his pace. There was no way Dorian thought the dragon was imaginary. There was no way he hadn’t seen it. This time Bull would not leave without a proper answer.

The sun was well over horizon when he strode up the stairs to Dorian's tower and banged on the door.

Nothing.

He banged again. “Dorian!”

“I heard you perfectly well the first time, you brute,” Dorian's voice carried from the other side. Bull heard him lift the bar, and the door opened, revealing a somewhat pissed mage.

“You again. Didn’t you leave the town?”

“Nope,” said Bull, and also, “ _D_ _runken tales my ass._ The dragon's real, and you know something about it.”

“Not this again. I told you -”

“You're covering up the dragon.” Bull should have drawn the connection earlier. He should’ve drawn it when Stitches first told about a Vint in tower. He should have _known._

Dorian dropped the pretence. His face contorted angrily. “Yes, I'm covering up the dragon.”

Shame. Bull had been willing to hope that Dorian had nothing to do with it. “Why?” he asked, preparing himself; now that the Vint was discovered, he could act rashly. Mages were always unpredictable, particularly those of Tevinter. Particularly those with secret fucking dragons.

But Dorian only continued to look angry. “That should be rather self-explanatory,” he said acidly. “Because I don't want it hurt.”

It wasn’t at all self-explanatory, and it wasn't the answer that Bull had expected, but it was still a stupid one. “It's a dragon, not a pet nug. You protect it, someone else’s going to get hurt.”

“The dragon hasn't hurt anyone -” Dorian hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and amended, “- without reason. It's of no danger to anyone as long as it's left undisturbed.”

“And you know that because..? Does it pop in for tea and tell you how many sheep it ate, how many kids it killed? Unless -” Shit. “Unless you've bound it with magic.”

“Bound it!” Bull had obviously overstepped some line here, because Dorian went from angry to straight up furious. “ _Bound it,_ he says! What are you implying? That I control the dragon with blood magic, send it on little raids in the neighbourhood? Burn towns to dust? Eat children for breakfast? Tell me, Iron Bull, how many smoking ruins did you pass? How many frightened villagers demanding the dragon's life? Well?”

Okay, so maybe frightened wasn't the right word for any of the villagers Bull had spoken to. Still. His point remained. Dragons were uncontrollable forces of nature that could destroy a village on a whim. Kind of like mages; unpredictable, dangerous, powerful. No wonder Dorian wanted to protect it; maybe he felt companionship for the thing.

“Well then, if you're quite done threatening me on my own doorstep...” Dorian made to pull the door closed in Bull's face.

Bull grabbed it, and held it open, resisting Dorian's angry tug at it. “Wait. Okay, sorry. But you've got to admit that it's a little suspicious. You know, hiding a dragon and lying about it. Maybe we should talk about that a little.”

“I am not accountable to you.”

“True, but try to see it from my side of the door. Dragons aren't known for gentle consideration. Consider the dragon attacking something, or someone. Won't take the villagers long to realise you live in the direction your dragon always disappears to.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes at him. “A realisation you'll undoubtedly gladly help them reach.”

“I'm not going to try to turn them on you,” Bull said, “But I'd like some answers.”

Dorian held his gaze steadily for a moment longer, but then seemed to deflate like Grim's puffy dough when Bull would poke it with his knife. “Come in, then,” Dorian said, resigned.

Bull made to follow him in, then halted before he crossed the threshold. “Hey, Dorian,” he said. “I'm not going to blackmail or otherwise harm you. I never attack anyone who doesn't target me first.”

“How kind of you,” was what Dorian said. He waved impatiently for Bull to enter.

Bull doubted that Dorian believed him, but stepped inside anyway. Dorian gestured at the chair Bull had occupied the last time too, and his lips stretched into a wry smile. “Tea?”

“Thanks, I'm good.”

“Suit yourself.” Dorian pulled out the crate he’d used as a chair when Bull had last visited. It looked uncomfortable, but Dorian had offered the proper chair to Bull unprompted, so wasn’t his place to question anything.

Dorian had crossed his arms and now expectantly arched a brow at Bull.

“So,” Bull said. “The dragon.”

“I will make this short and simple.” Dorian’s voice was steely, like the steady gaze of his grey eyes. “My friend is terminally ill. There is a chance that dragon blood might be able to cure him. I'm researching the possibility. I do not control the dragon or have any other influence over it.” He paused. “But I need the dragon alive and well, Bull. I will not let you, or anyone else harm it.”

Leave it for a Vint to go to an extremity like that, be it hunger for power or determination to save a friend. “What’s his illness?”

“He has the blight,” Dorian answered curtly.

“Crap. That’s rough.” Also, far as anyone knew, there was no cure for the blight. Even in the best case scenario where Dorian was telling the truth about his intentions, he was chasing a delusion. “Listen, uh, don't want to pop your bubble, big guy, but what makes you think dragon blood would cure something that's incurable?”

That was apparently a wrong thing to say, again. “Just because there's no records of anyone _trying_ doesn't mean it's impossible,” Dorian retorted angrily; no doubt he saw where Bull was going. “No one has ever seen a blighted dragon. Well, there are archdemons, yes, but there’s more to that than we know. Dragon's blood is way stronger than blood of any other living creature, human or animal, and it used to be a crucial element in potions that cure various sorts of poisoning. I have reason to believe that with enough dragon's blood it might be possible to overcome the taint in Felix' blood. In fact -” It looked like Dorian had forgotten that he was arguing with Bull – like he’d slipped into some scholarly excitement with bright eyes and wild gestures and firm belief into his research. It was sort of charming. “In fact, I have found some old scripts – ancient, even – describing utilization of dragon blood. They are in ancient Tevene, of course – Maker forbid there'd be any insightful research anywhere south of the Silent Plains, save for, perhaps, Nevarra, to some extent – so deciphering those texts is slow progress. What’s rather fascinating is that much seems to be left unsaid – it appears the usage of dragon blood was so common in the Ages past that many details were left unwritten simply because they were general knowledge and thus redundant, would you believe? Oh, don't make that face, I'm not talking about blood magic, although it must have been even more common back then than it is now – naturally, much depends on the precise definition of blood magic – but, but I mean the scientific approach to blood. Which is not to say that magic was completely absent in those experiments. On the contrary, I believe: I've finally managed to find references to what exactly happens when dragon blood gets in touch with powerful enough magic. I've found -”

And then Dorian seemed to finally remember with whom he was talking, and why, and what had prompted the entire conversation. For a moment he got this funny expression of a kid being caught at something embarrassing, but it morphed quickly into one of guarded disinterest, as if he thought he could fool Bull into thinking that the past five minutes never happened.

Fat chance. But: “Where's your friend though?”

“Felix? He remains in the Imperium.”

“So why are you here?”

“Didn't you hear one word of what I just said? Granted, it _was_ about magical theories, but -”

“Heard you just fine, big guy. I'm asking why you're doing your thing here, in Ferelden. I'd have guessed that if there's one place where you can find dragony books that'd be in Tevinter. Or Nevarra.”

Dorian sighed in a slightly vexed manner. “You really do like getting to the bottom of things, don't you?”

Bull valiantly resisted the pun about getting to _someone's_ bottom, and only shrugged. “What can I say, an old habit. I like to know things.” He had left his life in the Qun behind, but that trait was part of his nature. “My Tama used to call me Ashkaari when I was a kid, guess you could translate it 'the one who seeks'.” Then he grinned, because why hold back a good line if you had one? “So yeah, I really want to get to the bottom of you.”

The roll of eyes that Dorian theatrically produced was pretty much expected, but hey, would you look at that, there definitely was a trace of a smirk on Dorian's lips before he schooled his expression. “You will find,” Dorian said, and the smirk emerged again, “that _that_ might not be as easy as you think.”

 _Oh?_ “That mean I can try?”

“I have very little control over your actions, as we've regrettably seen in the past half an hour.”

That was not a no. Good to know. It was also good to know that Dorian was quite good at deflecting. “Speaking of. You were telling about why you're here.”

“Just making conversation again, are we?” Dorian offered a faint smile. “If you absolutely must know, I am not exactly welcome back home at the moment, so, for the time being, the further I am from Tevinter, the better. I've found that pariah-hood works rather well from afar.”

A fugitive? Could explain why he’d been so edgy the first time Bull came to his door. If he was telling the truth.

To his mild surprise, Bull actually thought that he was.

“Now that your curiosity is satisfied, let's return to the matter at hand,” Dorian said. “In short, what I was saying, I'm certain I'm onto something, and I will see my research to an end. For that I need the dragon. Alive.”

“My point stands though. A dragon's not a cow that you can milk for blood whenever you need it. How do you even plan to do it? Shit, have you _seen_ it up close?”

“I'm sure I will come up with something,” Dorian answered mildly, but his pale eyes narrowed and fixed on Bull. “Why, do you mean to say _you_ have seen it up close?”

Bull didn't even bother to try stop the grin that split his face. “Shit, _yeah_. Saw it on my way here this morning. Fucking _glorious_.”

Dorian regarded him with slightly furrowed brows for a moment, and then his expression lightened and the corners of his lips quirked up in an unmistakeably smug way. “It rather is, isn't it?”

There was something compelling in that smile, and Bull was struck with an urge to take that full mouth into his, see if Dorian tasted as good as he smelled. He had noted Dorian's attractiveness the first time around, of course – his eye was not just an accessory – but now that idle observation turned into interest. Yeah, he'd _absolutely_ be game if Dorian was.

But it wasn’t why he’d come.

“Look, I get it. You want to save your friend. But letting the dragon live puts in danger all the people around here.”

“They are not in danger as long as they don't disturb the dragon,” Dorian repeated stubbornly.

“Which is what you're planning to do yourself, sooner or later.”

“That concerns only myself, so -”

“Yeah, until you anger the dragon and it takes it out on everyone else. After it's eaten you first.”

“Bull. I understand your concern. But I have observed this dragon for all the five months I've spent here. Trust me, I know it's not a danger if it's not threatened. The villagers in Crestwood don't even believe it exist!”

“Not the point. It _does_ exist.”

“ _Fasta vass._ ” Dorian closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for moment, and when he looked at Bull again, he looked suddenly tired, like a heavy cloud had settled over him. “Why do you care so much? You aren't even _from_ here. If it's gold you want I'm sure you could earn it through easier means than fighting dragons.”

“Not getting gold. Haven’t been hired to kill it.” Yet. And even if they never would, facing a dragon in a fight was reward enough.

“Not hired? Then why do you even..?”

Okay, Dorian had it all wrong. Bull wasn't fighting dragons for gold. Yeah, sure, gold was a good motivator, but when it came to dragons, more was involved than a heavy purse. Dragons were _ataashi,_ glorious ones, they were beauty and strength and raw power. But that power was uncontrolled, and with every dragon there was a chance of that raw power turning on an innocent bystander sooner or later. Even if people were left alone, their cattle became dinner, leaving entire villages starving in winter. Dragons could not be tamed, so they had to be destroyed. Still, every dragon fight was a homage to the dragon's glory – there was something about them that made Bull's blood sing – and once the beasts were dead, he never left their carcasses rot. Armourers, blacksmiths, and tanners pissed their pants over a possibility to work on dragon scales, bones, or skin. That was a way to show respect, too – utilizing everything possible, letting nothing go to waste, giving a purpose even after death.

Dorian, however, was not sold on the picture Bull had painted. “A curious way to show respect,” he scoffed.

He wasn't grasping the _point._ “Says the guy who wants to bleed the dragon on regular basis? I respect dragons by giving them everything I have in a fight. Hey, did you know, we have a tradition among the qunari, to honour people important to us. A dragon's tooth, split in half -”

“I am aware of your tradition,” Dorian interrupted him crisply. “And that's supposed to be impressive? Slaughtering another being just to communicate something that should be possible to express in less gruesome ways?”

Yep, Dorian clearly wasn't getting it. Must be a Vint thing; Krem was like that too. Honestly, the things they were missing out, which Bull told to him too. Dorian gave him a sour look, so he continued, “Here's a thought, though: we’re going to look for the dragon. When we find its nest, we get you, and you can fight the dragon with us and try collect the blood you need.”

Dorian shook his head. “The blood won't keep for long, and I'm not finished with my research. I can see that this conversation is going nowhere, so we might as well agree to disagree and each return to our respective agendas. Now that I have, hopefully, cleared my questionable reputation in your... eye, we can quit meeting in such an interrogative setting.”

“Sure. That mean we can start meeting in another setting?” What could he say? Dorian kind of did send that sort of vibe.

Dorian rolled his eyes to the ceiling and said, “You are impossible.”

That, Bull noted, was not a no, either.

 

 

 

III

 

 

“Chief,” Stitches said, because Krem had given up several days ago, “This won't do. It's our fourth week here, and we haven't even glimpsed the dragon in all that time. Nor, I might add, have any of the villagers, except for Mirren, and she sees them everywhere. We are simply loitering around.”

“Hey, we've got lots of jobs.”

“Lots of pity jobs,” Rocky interjected from somewhere behind Bull's back where he was mixing powders for his grenades.

“We're helping the villagers,” Bull insisted.

“The mayor just feels bad for you because there's no dragon and you walk around smearing your sad puppy face all over the place,” Krem offered his insight, not bothering to take his attention from the sword he was oiling. “So we get the clean-up duty.”

“I saw the dragon!”

“Sure you did, Chief.”

“Let him be,” Dalish told them. “He's just smitten with his Vint.”

“I'm not.”

“You visit him every time you've got a chance,” Dalish pointed out. “And if there's no suitable excuse at hand, you invent one.”

“He knows something about the dragon.”

“And has he revealed anything that might be useful?” Stitches inquired. “About the dragon?”

Well, no. In truth, Bull was finding out less clues about the dragon and more details about Felix, and Dorian's life in Qarinus before some shit apparently went down with Dorian's family and he had fled from Tevinter. In _truth_ the dragon hadn’t really even been the reason why Bull’d been visiting Dorian, lately. The Vint was a sweet guy when he let down his barrier a bit, fun and smart, and he made good tea. What was there not to want to be around? Didn’t have to be smitten to enjoy good company.

Stitches took Bull's silence for what it was. “I thought so.” He spoke with the knowing authority that only a man who was used to handling people’s lives on daily basis could have. “I don't need to remind you that midsummer has come and gone, and we're still in Ferelden. Winter is coming, and if we don't begin preparations, it's going to be a tough one. Ser.”

“I don't know,” said Krem, lifting his sword to check it for any stains and squinting at the sun reflecting from the blade. “Think we have enough rice to last through the whole winter. Maybe the next one too.”

His guys were all assholes. Too bad they were also right. Tents were all nice and easy from spring to autumn, but when the winter storms hit for real, the Chargers would pack their things and rent a hut somewhere at the border or Nevarra and Orlais. They'd sit out the winter and hit the road again in spring as soon as the weather permitted. But for overwintering they needed good coin, and in all fairness Crestwood was no place for that; it was the nobility that had both the coin and the will to spend it. Normal people were too practical to hire mercs to clean up their crap for them, even if they had that kind of money.

“Fact is,” Stitches continued his onslaught, “that at the moment we don't have enough coin for a house even in the outskirts of the Free Marches.”

“Doesn't have to be Free Marches,” Dalish said, hopeful. “We could go to Antiva. There's always enough jobs in Antiva throughout the seasons.”

“We,” said Bull with finality, “are never going to Antiva again.”

Dalish was right though – didn't have to be the Free Marches, or Nevarra. Nevarra was a habit, rather than a preference. Could be somewhere closer, where they wouldn't have to cross the Waking Sea to reach it, some little town like Crestwood. Could be they'd get hired by some local bann for the winter, get moderate coin with a roof on their heads and food in their bellies. Maybe they shouldn't even venture far from Crestwood, what with there being a dragon and all. Maybe they should stay, ensure the safety of the people, wait out the dragon. It couldn't hide all winter. Eventually it would have to show itself, which could turn out badly for the villagers if the Chargers weren't there.

“You're right,” Skinner said to Dalish, when Bull voiced his thoughts. “He’s smitten.”

“Was that ever up to debate?” Krem snorted. Krem had, according to Krem himself, tried being the loudest voice of reason, right until the first time when Dorian had joined them in the Crestwood tavern. Dorian had acted very surprised to find the Chargers there, so surprised that no one had bought it for a second, and that had been when Krem had given up trying. They all knew Dorian hadn't set his foot in the tavern ever before, and the fact that Bull himself had been all jazzed up over seeing him there had been the last nail to Krem's coffin. Apparently Bull was too predictable when it came to pretty faces, or something.

Bull shrugged the commentary off, but as no one had any real objections, the Chargers continued to stick around. They’d had a good reputation in Ferelden even before Crestwood, and after a job or two for the local banns, word spread further; there were always merchants seeking protection for their caravans, or banns wanting to reclaim some quarry or other from bandits. Some jobs took the Chargers farther, and they’d be away a week or a fortnight at a time, but then between the missions they always returned to Crestwood for a few days. To check on the situation with the dragon.

“Still no dragon,” the mayor said apologetically on one such occasion, “but Corren’s prized druffalo has escaped. I know it’s not the same, but Druffian does mean a lot to him.”

They had found the druffalo, in a cave, fighting a wyvern, so it hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Even as the wyvern had been stomped to death by the time they had arrived.

“I wanted to recruit Druffian, but Corren said no,” Bull told later to Dorian, with the familiar mug of tea in his hand. “Pity. Would’ve made it the front charger of our team.”

“A druffalo,” Dorian said flatly, not taking his attention off some formula he was scribbling in the margins of the dragon blood book. “whose name I am not even going to acknowledge. What more is missing from your band of misfits? Nugs? Bogfishers?” But the corners of his mouth were tugging up.

“Grim once had a nug following him for an entire mission of clearing a mine from giant spiders,” Bull said, and lapsed into telling the story when Dorian laughed at that image.

He liked those moments, between the jobs. It was surprisingly nice to sit at the Chargers’ campfire on the road and think that he’d have a new story to tell to Dorian, and in return hear of the latest development with his research. It was something to look forward to, even if in all honesty Bull would rather skip hearing of the principles of the use of magic in blood study. But the way Dorian’s face always lit up when he got excited about something pretty much made up for it.

“What’re you smiling about?” Krem asked him, chewing the leather that Rocky had sworn was ram meat.

“Huh? Nah, nothing much.”

Krem looked sceptical. Beside him, Rocky tossed Grim a silver over the campfire.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Bull.

When the Chargers returned to Crestwood after three weeks on Storm Coast, the mayor sought Bull out in the tavern.

“I have good news for you,” he said. “Well. A considerable menace for us, but a job for your company, if you wish to take it: a giant has taken residence in the cavern you cleared of that wyvern a while back. It's far enough from the village to not cause harm here, but the beast has broken the fence of Corren's druffalo farm so that three of his druffalos have disappeared. And it is of course a danger to travellers.” The mayor gave Bull a wry smile. “It's still not a dragon, but nevertheless the best we have to offer.”

A giant was not a dragon, but it was pretty damn high on Bull’s list of favourite things to kill, and he did appreciate the mayors effort. “Now we’re talking!”

“There's one more thing,” the mayor said. “Another group of adventurers passed through Crestwood in search of the dragon while you were gone. Returned in a rather ragged shape, claimed that they had found and fought it. Couldn't kill it though, but said they had wounded it significantly, perhaps fatally. I don't know if they really found the dragon or if they just said so to cover up their stumbling in the woods, but there you have it. Mayhap you'll find some indication of the truth on your way to your Vint; they said they encountered the dragon somewhere in the eastern hills.”

The Chargers needed rest after their journey, so Bull decided they'd deal with the giant on the next day and spend the remaining day replenishing their strength. While most of his guys headed for the tavern (except for Stitches, who wanted to sell some looted trinket), Bull went for the hills. Before the Chargers had left for the Storm Coast, Dorian had found a promising Nevarran manuscript on the effects of dragon blood on Mortalitasi, and Bull wanted to know if he’d been onto anything there.

Turned out that Dorian had, because he broke into an enthusiastic tirade as soon as he let Bull into his tower. Bull's attention, however, shifted immediately to Dorian's left arm. It was bandaged and hanging in a sling.

“What happened?” he asked, interrupting Dorian's speech of the differences between Nevarran and Tevene views on dragons in Blessed Age.

Dorian blinked at him, thrown off, and then looked down at his arm like he’d only then noticed that it wasn't functioning as it should. “Oh, this? A rather embarrassing incident, really. I went to gather embrium after rain, slipped on the stones, and, well, I'm certain you can imagine how that went down, so to speak. You mustn't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Damn,” Bull said, and smiled down to Dorian. “Should've listened to me about your skirts. Mage boy.”

Dorian rolled his eyes at the reminder of one of their conversations. “Oh, for the- I'm wearing _robes_ , Bull.” But there was no exasperation in his tone, and the corners of his eyes crinkled when he mirrored Bull’s smile at him.

“How bad is it?”

“Not terribly. That is, it is broken, but I had the healer take a look at it in Crestwood.”

Bull frowned at the idea of Dorian making the walk to Crestwood with a broken arm. “Show me.”

“Oh, stop fussing, would you. I’m not -”

Bull ignored him, and instead closed the distance between them to gently take Dorian's broken arm in his hand. He carefully ran his fingers over the splint the healer had made, testing for the bone.

“It isn't truly broken,” Dorian said softly. He was looking at Bull's hands on his arm. “Only fractured, I'm told.”

“Could have Stitches take a look at it tomorrow, just to be sure. After we kill the giant.”

Dorian's attention perked up. “The giant?”

“Yeah. There's one troubling the village. We're taking it down tomorrow.”

“Figures you'd be so happy about it. Do correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t giants rather dangerous creatures to battle?”

Bull grinned. “Yep! Sure, it’s not a dragon, but it’ll give us good fight too.”

“Oh, for one day to pass without you mentioning dragonslaying.”

Bull's hand was still curled around Dorian's arm. Dorian covered it briefly with his own, and Bull felt the faintest squeeze. Then Dorian stepped out of his immediate proximity. “Well. Try not to die; I hear you've built quite a reputation in this part of Ferelden. Your loss would be severely felt, I wager.”

Severely felt, huh? “That concern I'm hearing, Vint?”

Dorian's responding smile was fond. “I _would_ notice you were gone.”

Bull wondered if Dorian himself was aware of how open he was, in this moment. How open he had become in the weeks past, compared to their first few meetings. He was still a little guarded at times, still holding back something, and yet: the crate that Dorian used as a makeshift stool had been, at some point, emptied of notes and turned over to make a more comfortable – and more permanent – seat; Dorian had even placed a pillow on it. The wooden mug was generally referred to as Bull's, while Dorian only used the smaller ceramic one. There was a sack of rice in the corner, where Bull had carried it from Crestwood, to the Chargers' general amusement. There was the little squeeze on Bull's hand just moments earlier.

So maybe his guys were right. Maybe he was a little smitten.

Dorian was still smiling at him when Bull said, “I'd like to take you to bed.”

To his credit, Dorian didn't falter much. “Figures you'd say that now,” he said instead, not without humour, nodding at his broken arm, “when I'm half bound already.”

Bull laughed. “Rather put my own knots on you, big guy.”

“Well,” Dorian said, and now he did look a little flustered. “Perhaps, perhaps that sort of activity should be postponed for a later date. Until my arm’s regained its, ah, range of motion.”

“Perhaps,” Bull agreed easily.

“However.” Dorian stepped back into Bull's space, a little breathless; his fingertips brushed over Bull’s harness. “I would not object to slightly less athletic use of our time. If you’ve a mind for it.”

They didn't fall into bed, but they did settle in Dorian's nest of pillows before the hearth, wrapped in slow kisses and languid touches and, eventually, sleep.

Bull had never really experienced ‘returning’ before, never really given much thought to the concept of ‘home’. The Chargers didn’t have one, as such; home was where they travelled, and before that he’d gone where the Qun had assigned him – always a post, never a home. But now, with the fire crackling and Dorian curled asleep against his side, he thought he kinda understood people's fascination with a place to return to.

 

 

 

IV

 

 

“How did the sod even find this place?” Rocky grumbled as they made their way through the tunnel in the fluttering light of a wisp Dalish had summoned. “Aren't giants supposed to be stupid or something?”

“You’re stupid,” Dalish responded with no apparent reason.

“Play nice,” Bull told them.

It was no surprise that after they’d killed the wyvern, another beast had made home in the vacated cavern – or, rather, in the open-aired lair on the other side of it. More surprising was that the beast was a giant; they were a rare breed in Ferelden, most of them staying west of the Frostbacks. Not that Bull was going to complain.

“All right boys,” he said, catching light at the end of the tunnel. They had hit the road early in the morning, and the giant was just as likely to be inside as it was likely to have gone out. Better safe than sorry, though, so they should approach carefully.

That said, their plan was simple: enter the cave and kill the giant. This time, at least, the terrain was familiar to them. This time, Skinner would know to watch out for the sudden-deep end of the pond.

“Remember to watch out for the deep end of the pod,” Bull said nevertheless, and was rewarded with a stink-eye that could curdle milk.

Turned out they didn't have to wait. The giant was at home, digging into a half-rotten druffalo corpse at the far wall of the lair. They heard the wet crunching even to where they stood.

“So goes Druffian, the stomper of wyverns,” Rocky said, regretful, when they halted to take in the situation.

“He will be remembered,” Skinner said with feeling rare to her.

“For every bloody battlefield, we’ll gladly raise a cup,” Bull agreed. “All right, boys. Here's the plan: we charge in and kill the giant.”

“Good plan,” Skinner said and unsheathed her daggers.

Krem muttered something under his breath and Stitches sighed behind Bull, but for once no one gave him shit. Not while they were on a job. “You know the drill. Dalish, stick close to the walls and be ready with your barriers. Skinner, wait until Grim, Krem, and I've got its attention, then strike – quick in, quick out. Stitches, cover her. Rocky, see if you come out with a way to slow it down without exploding half the cave at us.”

“Will do, Chief.”

“Good. Chargers, horns up!”

Without further ado Bull charged at the beast, roaring a challenge at it, and when the giant turned its attention on him everything narrowed down into the familiar battle frenzy. Bull grinned as he closed in on the giant, axe firmly in grip, and let the blood haze carry him on. This was good. This was life. This was -

“Maker’s weeping balls!” Stitches cried. “There’s another one! There’re two of them!”

Bull couldn’t turn to look, not when the giant swung at him, but Krem, who was fighting beside him and facing the tunnel entrance, swore aloud and landed his maul on the giant’s shin. It was enough to push the beast staggering, and Bull took the opportunity to chance a glance over his shoulder. Stitches hadn’t been kidding – did he ever? – as Bull turned his head just in time to see a giant fucking boulder flying his way.

“Watch out!” someone yelled at the same time with Skinner’s, “Chief!”

He didn’t have time for more than a jerk in an attempt to get out of the way, but it wasn’t enough – only Dalish’s quick barrier saved his ass as the force of the hit slammed him into the dirt. He rolled on the ground – sky, mud, sky – and stilled on his back, unfocused, disorientated, eye staring into the big blue above and lungs struggling to draw air.

That was when he heard the screech pierce the air, and then Krem’s, “Fucking _what!_ ”

He tried to clamber up, but his hand slipped from under him and he thumped back onto his back. He saw the giant swinging at Skinner in his peripheral vision and made another attempt to rise, but then a shadow glided over him and he looked up – in time to catch the glimmer of bronze against the sky as the dragon circled above them all. It screeched again, and the sight of it was damn near enough to knock the wind out of Bull’s lungs for a second time.

“You’re shitting me!” Krem’s voice again, close enough that Bull could hear him. He sounded pissed more than anything else, but Bull’s heart jolted in his chest, and with that the thrum of blood filled his ears again and his vision finally focused – centred on the dragon soaring back towards them. His senses returned to him battle-sharp in a familiar rush, and he hopped to his feet, this time steady, steady and fucking _ready_ _to go_.

“ _Now_ you believe me?” he bellowed, exhilarated, and laughed. Gripped his axe, took in the scene on the battlefield.

“Not the time, Chief!” Stitches yelled back as he, Skinner and Grim were fighting off the second giant, and the dragon, fuck. _The dragon_ circled around the open cave like it was. Like it was landing.

The dragon was landing.

Bull laughed again, couldn’t help it. He wasn’t afraid of death, never had been, and while he didn’t seek it, either, he never ran from it. But this? Two giants and a dragon? _Shit_. If he had to die at some point anyway, it couldn’t get better than this.

It wouldn’t get better than this.

“Not the _time_ , Chief,” Stitches yelled again, this time closer to Bull.

A hand punched his biceps. “Chief! We’ve got to retreat.”

The dragon landed, right in front of the tunnel entrance, flanking the second giant between itself and the Chargers. Bull grinned, gripped his axe tighter. “Over my dead body.”

Krem punched him again. “Yours and ours both if we don't go _now_.”

Krem was right, of course. Were Bull alone, he might just take his last stand there. But he wasn't alone. The Chargers were his men, and their lives his responsibility, and it was his job to keep them safe.

So he shouted, “Chargers! Time to go!”

He turned to the tunnel entrance while Krem repeated the command, and found the dragon looking directly at him. Up close it was even more magnificent than he remembered. Bull could see the bronze of its scales shift subtly in the sun as it moved, like molten metal, and its pale grey eyes regarded him with intense intelligence.

There was something weird in it, in the dragon’s look. Like it was familiar in some way? Like Bull had seen it before.

 _Not the time_ , he reminded himself – annoyingly, in Stitches’ voice. His priority was to get his men out of there with their hides unburn ed , and the dragon was just an obstacle on their way. So they’d _have_ to fight it a little bit to get out, just to get behind it and into the tunnel. With a roar Bull hefted his axe and opened his mouth for a command to the Chargers.

Like on cue, the dragon leapt off the ground, landing just in front of the giant closest to it, blocking it from Bull’s view and vacating the tunnel entrance.

No matter how much Bull wanted to test those scales with his axe, he was not stupid. “Come on guys! In there! Now!”

Retreating turned out to be easier than it should have been. Sure, the Chargers probably seemed the lesser threat to the giants with the dragon commanding the battlefield, but the odd thing was that the dragon would simply turn its back on them like that, like it didn’t care at all that they were there. Dragons didn’t do that. Dragons always kept their eyes on every threat on the battlefield.

“Is everyone all right?” Stitches asked once they were all in the tunnel, and got a chorus of mumbled affirmative in response.

“Chief?”

Bull didn’t answer – didn’t really hear him. He was staring at the dragon and the giants. The whole thing felt off. Way off. The dragon moved in an odd way, without placing any weight on its left front leg, like it was already injured. But there was no fucking way that a dragon with an injury would go out of its way to land in the middle of a fight to take on two giants. Shit, the dragon hadn’t showed itself in weeks, and now it suddenly deemed fit to show itself? The cave wasn’t even in its territory; the wyvern and even the giants wouldn’t have settled there to begin with if it was. It all made no sense _at all_.

“Chief,” Krem tried again, and Bull muttered, “What the fuck is going on.”

To make it all weirder the dragon glanced back at the entrance, at _them_ – a gesture that looked stupidly human on the huge beast – and then it drew back its long, powerful neck and _roared fire_ at the two giants before it.

“Shaper’s rolling arsecheecks,” Rocky muttered beside Bull as they watched the giants bellow in pain when fire poured over them. Bull had never seen a giant panic, but damn, apparently being swallowed in dragonfire did the trick – the beasts howled like their throats were on fire, and shit, they probably _were_.

Bull felt his own throat dry _._

The dragon leapt at the nearest giant, managing to tackle it to the ground, and sunk its claws right into its fat chest. But meanwhile the other giant, either in blind panic or already recovered from it, grasped the boulder it had thrown at Bull earlier, hefted it up, and hurled it at the dragon.

The boulder hit its mark, right in the dragon’s side. The dragon staggered and fell on its injured leg, which gave out under its weight, and before Bull fully grasped what he was doing, he was charging at the remaining giant with his axe in hands. It was their chance. One giant was dead, and the other almost there, too; no one’s, not even a giant’s, windpipe was made for inhaling fire. And the dragon, the dragon -

The dragon swept the giant’s legs from under it with its tail, as if just for Bull to reach it and bring down his axe on the beast’s skull. It split with a satisfying crack, and not wasting a moment, Bull turned to the dragon, axe hefted ready and Dalish’s barrier fresh and cool on his skin. Three steps and a healthy swing, that’s all it’d take to sink his weapon between those bronze scales.

Three steps and he’d get the fight he’d been craving since he first heard of the beast.

But the dragon didn’t really look like it was going to give Bull the fight he’d envisioned. It didn’t spit fire, or roar at him, or try to gain any distance. It just half-lied on the ground, sides heaving with each slow, heavy breath, and regarded Bull with its steady, pale grey eyes. It was just there. It was just _there_ , and if Bull took those damn three strides he’d land a hit right in the dragon’s chest. If he acted now he’d get to present the dragon’s heart to the villagers in Crestwood and everyone’s worries would be gone. Dragons were pure power, raw and uncontrolled and mindless power in the form of blood and flesh and fire, and failure to destroy the beasts would result in people getting killed.

But as Bull met the dragon’s intelligent eyes, he couldn’t see any of the bestial rage that usually flared in the mindless creatures. Instead he saw a glorious, cognizant being with a steady gaze that sent chills up his sweaty back right to the nape of his neck. Like it was saying something, like it was waiting for Bull to _understand_.

Three steps, and he could reach with his hand, feel the dragon’s bronze scales, touch his hurt leg. He could… he could -

“Chief,” called Rocky behind him, “We make it go boom or what?”

That broke the spell. The dragon scrambled on its legs in a weirdly alarmed way, like it had understood Rocky’s words. It looked almost funny and almost familiar, neither of which made any damn sense.

As Bull watched, axe still in hands, the dragon spread its mighty wings. With obvious difficulty it took to the air.

“No,” he answered slowly, watching the dragon struggle to gain more air under its wings.

He held his eyes on the dragon as long as he could see it, until it disappeared from their view behind the hills, in the direction of Dorian’s tower, and then turned to his guys. The Chargers were regarding him and each other wordlessly, with varying amounts of perplexity.

“Okay,” Krem said, because like a capable Second he was good at taking the initiative when no one else would. “Does anyone else think this was weird?”

“Does anyone else think the dragon helped us?” Dalish asked.

No one answered her.

Bull secured his axe to the straps on his back. “Let’s go,” he said, and took the lead.

 

 

 

V

 

 

The sun was setting by the time Bull reached Dorian’s tower.

It looked now same as always – quiet from the outside, easily mistaken for the uninhabited ruin it had been before Dorian’s arrival – but Bull couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different, something was _wrong._ The air hung heavy and sticky around him, and had it always been so quiet there? The queasy tug in his guts when he had left from Crestwood had been morphing into a foreboding turmoil the closer he’d got to Dorian’s tower. He should’ve come straight from the fight in the cave, followed the dragon – there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t attack Dorian, even injured as it was, or that Dorian wouldn’t resolve for something stupid for the sake of his research. Bull should’ve come immediately, but some idiocy had possessed him to return to Crestwood first, as if turning in the job was somehow more important. But there were no signs of fighting there, so the knot in his belly eased a little.

It wound up again when he climbed up the stairs to Dorian’s door; he found it not only unbarred, but also ajar, something that Bull hadn't seen once in all his visits. The door had always been closed, Dorian had always opened it to him. He made himself stop, listen, breathe in slowly. Then he quietly unstrapped his axe and carefully pushed the door further open.

There were no signs of fighting in the room, either. The disarray there was of the normal kind, just stacks of books and piles of paper everywhere. Dorian’s cup stood on the table as usual, and there was fire in the hearth, although it was dying – it clearly hadn’t been fed in hours.

Bull didn’t immediately notice Dorian himself in the room, which had possibly been Dorian’s intention, because when Bull finally spotted him in his nest, he was lying completely motionless underneath the blankets, only his face peeking from between pillows. His eyes were wide open and fixed on the axe still in Bull’s hands, before rising to meet Bull’s eye.

“Ah,” he said, quietly. And then, “I had rather hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

He continued to lie still as a statue, grey eyes fixed on Bull’s, waiting for him to understand, just like earlier that day, and Bull -

And Bull finally grasped the something that had been eluding him for so long, ever since the Chargers first arrived in Crestwood. The realisation hit him like a hammer, and it must’ve reflected on his face, because something shifted in Dorian’s eyes and he turned them away from Bull.

Bull wasn’t often left so flabbergasted that he’d get no word out of his mouth, but, shit, what could he say? How hadn’t he seen it earlier? He hadn’t even suspected it. The whole thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now that it had, everything centred down to it.

“So,” he said. “You’re the dragon.”

“Yes,” Dorian said quietly. He wasn’t looking at Bull. “I’m the dragon.”

Only then did it occur to Bull how he must look like, and he dropped his axe on the floor with a loud clang. After a fleeting moment of deliberation he followed suit, sitting heavily down on the floor within a few paces to Dorian’s nest.

Dorian was the dragon.

 _Dorian._ Was the _dragon_.

“That’s. Well, that’s. Mmh.”

Dorian looked at him then, and a myriad of things flashed in his eyes; anger, resignation, defiance. Sadness. “Monstrous? Disgusting?” He grunted a bitter laughter. “Unnatural?”

Actually, Bull had meant to say hot, but it didn’t seem appropriate. Instead he said the only other thing his mind was able to provide, equally true. “Pretty damn impressive.”

“I thought you wanted to destroy all the dragons.” Dorian’s voice was strained, eyes directed a little off Bull’s face, at the tapestry on the wall behind him.

Bull didn’t answer immediately – had to scrape for his thoughts, unwind them, to find some order in his own damn head. “The mindless, uncontrolled power, yeah. Didn’t see any of that back in that cave today.”

Dorian’s throat worked, but nothing came out. His eyes fell closed. “I see.”

Bull was suddenly seized by an urge to cradle that frowning face in his palms and touch his forehead to Dorian's, to smooth the fear and worry pain away, to somehow convey the feeling he had no word for but that threatened to burst his chest open. He didn’t, though. Wasn’t sure if Dorian wanted to be touched right now.

“Yeah. About that. Back in the cave.” He paused. Dorian had been there, and it sure as fuck hadn’t been an accident, but for all his Ben-Hassrath education Bull was reluctant to read into anything there. The _facts_ were that Dorian had come and put himself between the Chargers and the giants, and, consequently, got hurt. But Bull didn’t know how to bring that out of his mind, so he only voiced the barest of facts: “You were there.”

Dorian snorted a faint laughter at that. “Your eye does its job, I see.”

“You got hurt.” Because he had come between the Chargers and the giants. Bull remembered the awkward way the dragon – _Dorian_ – had moved, even before the boulder had caught his side.

“Well,” said Dorian, and looked like he wanted to continue but found himself at loss of words.

“How bad is it?”

“Fractured ribs, nothing too serious, I’m sure. And, ah. I suspect the arm’s a little worse for wear again. I’m afraid I won’t offer all that much challenge if you still, well.” Dorian made to glance at the axe that was still lying on the floor between them, but the angle was too awkward. “I might, nevertheless, point out that I do not appreciate being made ‘go boom’, as one of your scoundrels so eloquently put it earlier today.”

“No one goes boom,” Bull promised, softer than he had intended, and made to reach for Dorian. “Can I see?”

“There’s nothing much to see,” Dorian said hastily, recoiling and then wincing at the movement.

“That bad?” He should’ve come directly to Dorian’s. Should’ve brought Stitches along, too. “Crap. Got to get you a healer, big guy.”

“No. Not yet, at least. Nothing can be done about it now,” Dorian said, firmly. “Unless you’d be so kind as to brew some of that elfroot mixture for me. The effect of the last dose seems to be wearing off. Short-sighted of me, I know, to prepare only one cup, but here we are.”

Hustling with Dorian’s potion was good – it gave Bull something to do with his hands and time to collect his thoughts a little, while being able to offer what help he could to his- to Dorian. But everything in his head spiralled down to one thought only.

Dorian was a dragon. _Dorian was a dragon._

“ _How_ are you the dragon?” he asked, offering the steaming cup to Dorian, then realising he’d have to prop him up for the drink and setting the potion aside. Dorian didn’t object to his careful handling, only gritted his teeth until Bull got him settled in a sitting position against the pillows as comfortably as possible. He accepted the drink with a relieved sigh and took a slow sip, obviously playing for time. It was all right. Bull had time.

“I will keep it short and simple,” Dorian said finally, fingers tracing the carved patterns on the cup seemingly idly. “Perhaps you remember my mentioning studying the reaction of dragon blood and powerful magic.”

Bull remembered, all right; Dorian had given him many a lecture about his research, though Bull hadn’t paid much attention to the details – he had focused more on Dorian himself, the way he’d get all immersed in his own words and slip into the skin of a debating scholar. He was slipping into it now, too, distancing himself from Bull by hiding behind the familiar role.

“Well, I suppose the heart of the matter is that someone in my ancestry, in the Ages preceding Andrastian era in Tevinter, dabbled in magical experiments with dragon blood. You know we used to worship dragons as the Old Gods back in the day, and I do suspect that the Magister Pavus in question was somewhat blinded by the same hubris that’s said – said here in the south, mind you – to have caused the creation of darkspwn. I… probably shouldn’t have drawn that comparison, should I? Well. What I mean is that the objective of those experiments was likely to use exalted blood to enforce the magic of the mage performing the ritual. I’ve no clear account of the end result for my ancestor in question, but the prolonged effects in the Pavus bloodline entail – well. This. What I am.”

Bull felt a little queasy, but he had to ask. “And what are you?”

“I am me,” Dorian said, firmly. “I am human. I simply… am a dragon, too. Bull, you have to- please understand. I am human, but my dragon form is as much myself as the one you are looking at as of this moment. Throughout the ages, this would occur every few generations in the Pavus family. Only in those whose magic is strong enough to react with the dragon blood, naturally.” Bull thought he saw a beginning of a smirk there, before Dorian remembered himself and cut it short. “My mind is entirely my own, if, if that’s what you’re asking. Regardless my physical form.”

“Yeah,” Bull said, because he had to say something. It was a bit of a tough bite to swallow. Leave it to Vints to mess with magic and dragons to create something so.

Something so glorious, to be honest, looking at Dorian.

“Yeah?” Dorian asked, softly.

“Yeah,” Bull confirmed, and grinned, unable to stop it. “Okay, that’s all a little messed up, but shit. You’re a _dragon_. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He knew it had been a stupid question even before Dorian fixed him with a baleful and a very sour glare. “’Why’, he asks. Why, indeed, did I not reveal my ultimate secret to a mercenary who barges through my door and declares his fondness of dragonslaying by way of introduction? A mystery of the Ages, I should say!”

“Point taken.” He reached to take the now empty cup from Dorian’s hands. The potion was already taking effect; he could tell Dorian had to put a little effort into keeping his eyes focused. “Question, though. Why turn into a dragon at all, if you wanted to hide it?”

“I did say I _am_ the dragon, as well a human, in terms of physical form. Compare it to stretching your legs after spending a week cramped in a box. Besides,” Dorian’s smile turned a little soft. “One must admit that daily worries seem pleasantly trivial from above. Helps to put them in perspective, calm the mind. Gives a little distance.”

Right, daily worries. For all the talk about Dorian’s research, it was sometimes easy to forget that Dorian had set himself an objective to fulfil. “So. You’re experimenting on your own blood, then. To save Felix.”

“It’s not blood magic,” Dorian hastened to say. “And it’s not like I’m shedding bucketfuls of blood. I haven’t even figured out the correct formula to begin with. Since the beginning of the Andrastian era many such records have been either destroyed or well hidden, in rejection of the heretical dragon gods, or then in desire to protect them. I have recovered but one truly old manuscript, and even that is but an ancient copy of the original. There are, however -” He caught himself, and continued with an embarrassed cough, “Well. Suffice it to say that I’ve grounds to believe I’m on a trail to my answer. Granted, Felix’s magic has never been strong, but nevertheless I find one must try, yes?”

His voice had gone quieter towards the end, and he had slid a little lower on the pillows – the elfroot potion was beginning to kick in properly. “So,” he said, “there you have it. The entire truth, complete and unabridged. I’m aware that I’m getting somewhat repetitive, but I would like to make it perfectly clear that I prefer my heart where it is, thank you. In case you’re still entertaining thoughts of presenting it to the villagers.”

The _what now_ that followed his words hung silently, but no less prominently between them. Funny thing was that on his part, Bull held no uncertainty of his own answer.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” he said, reaching to re-arrange the pillows so that Dorian could lie down properly. The mage gave one half-heartedly indignant squawk, but protested in no other way. When it was done, Bull brushed a finger along Dorian’s brow and leant away. “Think I prefer your heart where it is, too.” He stood up; the potion would make Dorian sleep in moments, so Bull could go and fetch Stitches to have a proper look at his injuries.

Something flashed in Dorian’s eyes, too quick for Bull to catch. “Bull,” he said, hand flexing on his chest like he had to force it to stay still.

What else could Bull have done? He crouched beside him again, took his hand into his own. “I’m here, big guy.”

Dorian looked like he needed to say something but couldn’t, so he just squeezed Bull’s hand, grip weakened by elfroot, and repeated a little helplessly, “Bull.”

He pressed a gentle kiss on Dorian’s knuckles. “Yeah. I hear you.”

Maybe the elfroot was making Dorian mellow, or maybe it wasn’t the elfroot at all, but when he spoke it was with a mixture of rare earnestness and urgency. “Will you stay?”

“You need a healer, Dorian,” Bull answered softly.

“Ah.” Dorian closed his eyes with a sigh, uncurling his fingers around Bull’s hand, and Bull realised, belatedly, that it wasn’t what Dorian had asked.

Fondness swelled in his chest again so that it hurt, and this time he gave in to it, and leant down to lay his forehead to Dorian’s. “Hey. Dorian. I’m not going anywhere. I stay.”

Because it was true. Because he had been wrong earlier: there _was_ a word for that, for what he felt. Maybe not within the frames he was used to thinking about it, but it was the name for when his chest had become too small to contain his own heart, so that he had nowhere to put it – no other place for it but Dorian.

And that, Bull realised, _that_ was home. It wasn’t a place, wasn’t something tied to a map. Home was people, his people, his Chargers. Home was Dorian, who had accepted Bull’s heart to be carried as his own.

Maybe one day Dorian would trust Bull with his, too. Maybe he already had.

“Good,” said Dorian, and drifted to sleep.

 

 

 

VI

 

 

“You mean to say that Dorian’s the dragon?” Krem asked, incredulous.

“Yep,” said Bull, grinning from horn to horn.

“Maker damn it,” said Krem, and parted with his coin purse. Grim accepted it with quiet complacency.

“I hope he fries your arse,” said Krem.

 

 

 

*


End file.
